


Where I Want You

by C_H_A_C_H_A



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: (porn with barely any plot), Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Guro, M/M, gore porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_H_A_C_H_A/pseuds/C_H_A_C_H_A
Summary: He’s sick and tired of having to deal with this snake.





	Where I Want You

**Author's Note:**

> . . . [INTRODUCTORY] . . .  
> ——————————————  
> If I miss anything in the tags, then I’m terribly sorry — please tell me so that I can try to correct my mistake! My content is not meant to harm or offend anyone. Please use discretion when reading and acknowledge that it’s at your own risk if you are sensitive to the subject matter involved, please don’t do so if you aim to harm or offend yourself. Thank you, I hope you enjoy. ♡♡♡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Check the google doc for chapter specific tags!)

[“W](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1S_LHCjRwrKiCKTgZylYBaE7c0EIByddUgvHOtIm1rtE)hy I outta—!”

    -with a gruff voice came a heavy hand, grabbing at Spy,

pulling at his special little suit, tailored all pretty. Forcing it open at the front before spitting his words:

        _“There we are, ya bloody mongrel. Right where I -_ ~~gaah~~!!!”

 

   Spy shoved the man back, looked at him with such hatred. He couldn’t believe Sniper had the **balls** to mess with _him—_ and like _this_! After some struggling Sniper managed to force the filthy scumbag’s hands out of his way, up above the bastard’s head, and his _own_ pair of hands past clothing, up to soft skin that he quickly clawed at.

  
**“Right where I want ya.”**

   Spy made sure his voice didn’t tremble through the beginnings of searing pain.

  
“Get away— you **_disgust_ ** me, bushman.”  
\---- _continuing to try and escape Sniper’s strong grip._

 

Soft skin with angelic curls of greying hair, down an almost completely smooth chest,

went up and down with each panicked breath.

Sniper’s eyes bore into the body.

“ **Disgust** you, eh? You oughta fuckin’ like me the way it’s been, goin’ after me _bloody arse_ every match, _right from the fuckin’ get-go._  Didn’t think I was expectin’ ya, mate?” His voice was low, sultry as he fought against Spy’s squirming.

 

“ _I’m_ a bloody professional!” And then those hands, still clawing and forcing their way past comfort, into places they just shouldn’t be; stopped.

“ _I’ve gotta expect the likes o’ you_.”

   They stopped, like they were suddenly so uncertain of their own placement.

   Spy’s breathing was heavy, and Sniper could feel something— a bulge at the crotch of the other man’s pants, things felt much more intimate than they should have in that moment: through panted out, heavy breaths; deep scorn for one another. Movements were slow and pitiful, the Spy’s struggling now just as uncertain as those hands.

    Suddenly, the Frenchman saw an opportunity, and he took it.  
He stopped squirming, and quickly spat right in Sniper’s face, aimed perfectly.

    They were in a stalemate the moment the spit landed. Sniper didn’t move to wipe it, his eyes hardly visible behind the lens of his aviator sunglasses, not in the poor lighting. There was more intimate silence, dangerous between both men.

… _at this point_ Sniper had his _own_ growing tent.

Spy stared into Sniper’s eyes the best he could, narrowed.

” _Motherfuckeur,_ ” he grunted, an awkward dismissal of the silence.

   Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to stop his body from enjoying this. He wanted the rough hands back on his skin. He wanted the rough hands _off_ of his suit.

Sniper finally moved to wipe the spit with his arm, the cold air hitting what was now wet — wet along his skin but he ignored it, leaning further into Spy. Getting breathy after a second only to lean down to his ear.

   And Spy sunk down, melted into the smooth surface he was held against, like a fucking puddle. His cock got to full hardness; he anticipated being scolded, slapped, beaten, maybe spit on in return. He tilted his head to the side, ready for what was about to come his way. He wanted to _fight_ Sniper‘s advances, but he simply couldn’t resist dirty talk, whether he’s giving or receiving it.

“ **I’m gonna tear you apart with me bare hands, and when your chest cavity’s nice and wide _imma piss in ye_ _bloody __body_ _and let you_ _bloody die o’ blood loss_ _, cold and alone like a deflated wankers’ pretty little_ _pin -up doll_** _._ ”

 

   Sniper didn’t know what came over him. But it was strong and full of malicious intent, the power he had in this situation. And the desire he had to do something he’s never done in his entire life before.

He wanted to _torture _ the man below him.

   Spy kept his head to the side, his face beet red, his breathing heavy.

And he was flustered all over again. His eyes were shut, lightly, and he looked as if he were experiencing pain and pleasure at the same time - all in one, wanted to hide his face even more than it already was hidden behind his ski mask. He looked to Sniper with the most innocent eyes he could manage—

 

 _he was_ **_embarrassed_**.

Sniper gently brought his face up, tilting it just enough to see the enemy Spy’s expression while still breathing down his neck. His eyes were glossy, hardly noticeable but glossy, glossy, glossy, examining in a predatory manner.

   He bit down on nothing, growing tense.

“What, ya want me to show a little mercy now, do ya?” He leaned back, gripping the front of Spy’s ripped suit, the remainder of it. His actions became stiff, aggressive.

   Filled to the brim with testosterone.

“ _Ya want MERCY, do ya_!?” He pulled Spy up only to slam him back down.

   The intensity of the situation also pulled Spy from his stupor.

He became more frustrated, and it showed on his face when he attempted to push back the marksman with his legs, kicking at his torso. But the panic was clear and set in their situation. He was trying not to show it, using a firm voice.

  
“ _Stop_ ,” he muttered his demand.

   This only made Sniper want to hurt the frenchman all the more viciously, even more than he previously had been focused on. Their scuffle was loud but hushed, like a panicked whisper. Boxes knocked over and they both got to the floor, the bushman’s nails finally pried through fresh flesh. He was putting so much energy into jabbing.

   Spy winced in pain, the Aussie had him trapped and he couldn’t do anything about it. He looked down at his irritated, exposed skin. A mix of pain and frustration stirred in him as tears formed in his eyes, not falling.

Or at least not until his blood began to _really_ spill, along with— _along with his_ -

Sniper’s hands went from jabbing and clawing to pulling apart, and before either of the men knew it Spy’s chest cavity had been ripped open with a juicy **squelch** _of a sound_. The array of carefully put together skin and muscle, all protecting Spy’s casing of internal organs, was in ruins. 

   Whatever little trust Spy had for the disgusting man on top of him — it was gone. He yelled out in fear, a pitiful yelp really, as his skin was ripped apart; tilted his head back and closed his eyes tightly, began to whimper, gave little moans of pain. He was shaking as though he were having an epileptic seizure.

   He arched his back.

   Sniper took in the sight, eyes focused sharp on the pitiful look displayed, the mix of pain and desperation. How it almost looked hot — had him leak, pulling out the poor man’s intestines as a wetness filled the crotch of his pants, he panted. Too into the shedding of viscera to actually stop and think about what was happening.

    Spy had pitifully given up, his face rested back as he gasped, had sharp breaths of pain. The occasional “ ~~ ** _Stop_**~~ ” or “ ~~ ** _Sniper, please_**~~ ” escaped from his mouth, along with his continued whining and panting.  
  
       He was begging for everything to stop, he was begging for his life.

   But Sniper didn’t stop.

He kept pulling and tearing until Spy could only gurgle his pleas, and it was with each panting breath that the marksman squished what was between his strong fingers, against his palm. Watched as the twitching body below him stilled, surely.

 

~~_Spy’s breathing slowed, his squinted eyes barely open._ ~~

 

~~_His body went limp and his eyelids finally fell to a close._ ~~

 

~~_He couldn’t make anymore noise, just breathing was too much of a struggle._~~

    As his last bits of air ran through his lungs, the still image stayed in his head, the last thing he saw — Sniper, viciously tearing his insides; **making everything a mess**.

A bloody, gory mess. 

Now Spy was still - _surely, completely_ — Sniper was sure that the man below him had let out his last breath. As usual the body stayed after Respawn caught the man’s life, Sniper’s eyes were glued to the unmoving frame, the blood soaked suit. The ruined entrails that now meshed with the wooden flooring.

 _“Shit,”_ \---Sniper panted out, sweating. It was like he just now remembered to breathe. Bringing a hand to his temple and slick through his hair, a poor decision given the immense amount of blood that coated it — almost like thick, clotting paint. He briefly looked around, tired eyes in search for material items, but then his mind went to other places.

 

~~**_Did he piss himself?_** ~~

~~**_He didn’t piss himself._** ~~

 

It took a single moment to realize that the warmth that filled the crotch of his pants wasn’t piss— that he hadn’t pissed himself in the panic caused by his own actions, but that he had rather orgasmed. His boxers were stained by ejaculant.

Beginning to grab his stuff; his kukri, his rifle, his hat, everything that had been thrown aside after he’d been so abruptly interrupted — the sniper muttered, then panted. And found a new location, praying that the spy he’d brutally murdered wouldn’t find him a, what, thirtieth time?

   He couldn’t get a single headshot after that. 

   Barely any body shots, slowly his ranking fell to the bottom of the charts.

   His hands were just shaking so goddamn much, he couldn’t aim.

   He sighed, putting his rifle to the side before running his hand through his greasy hair again, the hardened blood softening and coming off in patches as he sighed, sighed and sighed and sighed again; inevitably, he muttered to himself.

 

_“Maybe it is mental sickness.”_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was created in part by my lover, via roleplay with my lover — we worked together on the storytelling and I took control of most, if not all, of the editing. If you enjoyed our writing, consider leaving kudos and a comment, or messaging one of us personally! We also take requests + suggestions (and I personally like to receive criticism!). ♡♡♡
> 
> My lover and I plan on writing more for this universe, if you like the idea of getting the next two chapters leave a comment below to encourage us! ♡♡♡


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